Crashing Down
by ghibli22
Summary: Arthur Kirkland: Radio talent and aspiring author. Arthur Kirkland: the human embodiment of England. With two different worlds, can he escape before he's trapped in the wrong one? And what the hell does Francis have to do with it! Eventual FrUk.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur Kirkland woke with a start, sitting up in bed and breathing hard. He put a hand on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath his fingers. The lights of London drifted through the blinds on his window, casting long stripes over the bed and floor. In the near darkness of his flat, two words spilled from Arthur's lips.

"That's it!"

Throwing off the covers he stood and pulled on a shirt, walking over to the desk in the far corner and rummaging around for his mobile. Extracting it from the various outlines that littered the mahogany surface he dialed a few numbers and pressed the device to his ear. The tone trilled once, twice… he tapped his foot on the floor.

"_Yeah?"_

"You should have more decency when picking up your phone."

"_Arty? Damn, man. Its one in the morning you know!"_ Alfred complained. Loudly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, "What does that matter? You stay up until three every night anyway."

On the other end of the line he could heard Arthur snickering, _"Energy drinks, Arty! They are so badass!"_

"Before we get into another conversation about your caffeine addiction I actually called to tell you something," He hesitated for a moment before continuing, "I just thought of a story. A good one."

_"What, like that last thing you wrote? That kids story about the caterpillar and the frog?"_

His face flushed angrily, "No, damn you! I mean it this time, this is the story I will make my first novel!"

_"Yeah, sure,"_ In the background American pop music started playing and he groaned. Ever since Alfred had spent a year abroad in the States he just wasn't the same. He'd even picked up that moronic accent of theirs.

_"So why are you telling me this?"_

Sighing, Arthur wandered over to the window and pulled up the blinds. Below London lay dormant, streetlights making everything glow. He leaned against the wall, gazing at the odd car that rolled by, "Well…" now came the hard part, "You do work for that publishing house so I was wondering if…"

_"O-o-oh," _Alfred's voice stretched over the phone, sounding smug, _"You just want me for my connections. I see how it is."_

He rolled his eyes, "Alfred?"

_"What?"_

"Shut up."

_"Is that any way to talk to your lord and master super-awesome benefactor? You know, I think the phone cut out back there, what were you talking about? Publishing something or other?"_

"Alfred, it is one am and I am in no mood for this!"

_"Sheesh, calm down! You're the one who called! But seriously, you have to write the thing before I can help get it published."_

Arthur pressed his head against the window, closing his eyes and letting the glass cool his face, "I know, I know…" he opened his eyes again, "… Bugger."

_"What is it?"_

A scowl crossed over his face, "They're building a god forsaken _strip club_ across from my flat!"

The building had been abandoned for ages, some old boarding house that had been burnt out long ago. For as long as he could remember it had been empty, something you ignored when walking by and nothing you ever gave any thought to. Alfred laughed.

_"Dude, that's awesome!"_

"Not its not! This is a place where people make their homes, what do they need to put one here for?"

_"Obviously that's the _best_ place to put one!"_ Alfred said, _"Escape from your home life right outside of your home."_

"That's disgusting."

_"What's the place called?"_

Arthur squinted at the 'Coming Soon' sign, depicting a woman with her leg wrapped around a gun, "_Lock and Load…_ Or something."

_"I've heard of them! They're supposed to be awesome!"_

"How on Earth do you _hear_ of a strip club?"

_"You really do live under a rock, don't you…"_

He scowled, "What?"

_"Anyways, these guys are famous!" _Alfred continued, _"They've got places all over London."_

"Of course you would know that..." Closing the blinds again he walked back over to the bed and flopped down on the mattress, "What is this world coming to?"

_"Either way we should totally go once it opens."_

"Wh-What?" Arthur felt his face flush at the suggestion, "And why would I want to do that?"

_"Because they've got girls _and_ guys working there."_

Spluttering, the red color in his cheeks intensified, "I-I- Don't say things like that!"

_"God, Arty, calm down!" _said Alfred,_ "Its not that big of a deal. What do I care if you like dudes?"_

"Maybe you don't care but I do!"

_"I've known since we were eighteen when you came out of the closet to me on graduation. Time to grow a pair and face the rest of the world, dude."_

"Alfred..."

_"I would march in a parade with you!"_

He groaned, grabbing his alarm clock and gazing at the glowing red numbers. It was too late to be having a heart-to-heart about his goddamned sexuality, "Goodnight, Alfred."

_"What? But you're the one who called me!" _The pitch of his voice rose to uncanny levels as he complained, _"You can't just leave me hanging here. Listen, I was just about to put on this wicked horror flick I rented and maybe if you stay on the phone with me then-"_

"_Goodnight_, Alfred!" And with that he snapped the device shut, placing it on the nightstand. Shuffling around in the sheets he pulled the covers over his head, blinking in the darkness. His book. He still liked the way that sounded in his head. He could just imagine sitting at his desk, words spilling from his fingers. A grin spread over his face. Oh yes, this could be very, very good.

As his eyes drifted closed for the second time that night, the room was filled with the sounds of whispered words. Arthur's hands gripped the blankets, the story flowing and twisting in his mind.

"It was raining..." soft and low came his voice, "It had been raining for days, the heavy clouds soaking the city in mist and fog..."

Outside, the first raindrops of a storm began to patter against the sidewalk.

XXXXXXX

As consciousness slowly returned to Arthur's mind a small groan escaped his lips. His whole body felt sore. He shifted a bit, fingers groping around for the sheets and only meeting cold stone. Ah. That would explain the soreness taking over his limbs and the headache starting to pound behind his eyelids. Wherever he was, it was not his soft four-poster bed.

"_Angleterre? Angleterre, _wake up, _s'il te plait._"

At the sound of a disturbingly familiar accent his eyes snapped open, only to close again almost immediately. Industrial-style light fixtures. Not the best thing for the headache that had just about doubled in intensity.

Mumbling a few selected curses he rolled onto his side, clutching at his head. Faint traces of sulfur and other chemicals in the air helped to diminish some of the sleepy haze surrounding his thoughts, "Blasted frog... What the hell are you doing here?"

"You tell me, mon petit," Francis replied, "I wasn't expecting to find you on the floor in this disturbing place."

Arthur's eyelids slid open, revealing the world to his deep green pools. His head throbbed, but nonetheless he pushed himself up and glared at his unwelcome guest. Francis grinned at him.

"Good morning, _Angleterre._"

He scowled, rubbing his head and looking around. As his vision focused his own basement came into focus, various magical apparatuses scattered around his work area. On the floor a large white circle was scripted in chalk, complex and delicate symbols adorning the stone. The ones closest to him were smudged, and sure enough white streaks stained his cloak and clothes when he looked down. Grumbling to himself he tried his hardest to brush away most of the residue.

Next to him Francis stood, stretching, "What exactly were you doing down here? Sacrificing something?"

"Oh, ha ha. Very funny," Standing himself he ignored his headache and threw his cloak into the corner, "For your information I was attempting to close whatever trans-dimensional door that Ivan keep using to get into my house. Git."

Francis glanced warily at the ruined circle, "Did it work?"

Sighing, he bent down to take a closer look at his work. Everything looked in order, save a few spilled jars and the smudged part, "Can't tell right now, really. I'm going to have to wait till the next time I summon a daemon to check."

"Is that really what you do with your spare time?"

He decided not to answer, instead heading for the stairs. As he climbed he glanced back at the Frenchman, "Why are you here, anyway? Or did you just come to be bothersome as usual?"

For once Francis appeared speechless. Arthur raised a brow at the unusual occurrence but didn't say anything, waiting for an answer.

"Well, _Angleterre…_" he started, fiddling with his hair as they reached the landing to the first floor, "I was wondering if-"

"Wait, wait…" Arthur held up a hand for a moment before putting it on the railing for support. His vision twisted, tilted, spun. His head pounded like someone taking a pickaxe to his skull.

"Does the air feel heavier to you…?"

And with that he fell unconscious to anything and everything in this world. Even the strong arms wrapping around him, saving him from hitting the floor.

* * *

_Well I hoped you enjoyed that! Its my first (published) attempt at writing England for longer then a cameo in other things so let's all hope it came out okay. And if you're confused... It'll all become clear eventually XD_

_I'd love to hear what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry for the long wait. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

It wasn't very often that Arthur set his alarm clock. Although not too keen on staying up late like Alfred, he wasn't a morning person either. At least not before his first cup of oolong or earl grey. So on this particular morning, when Arthur found himself repeatedly whacking the timepiece, it took him a few moments to realize that the sound was not coming from the clock but from his mobile. Which was placed annoyingly on his nightstand instead of on his desk where it belonged.

Disgruntled, he grabbed the device and flipped it open, hitting the speaker so he could just lay there, "H'llo?"

_"Arthur? Man, I am so relieved that I got you!"_ Mathais' voice emanated from the phone, _"Can you come down to the station?"_

He raised a brow, stifling a yawn, "And why would I do that? I take the noon shift on weekdays. And if you haven't noticed- Its eight thirty on a Saturday!"

_"Come on, Arthur,"_ Mathais pleaded, _"Gilbert called in sick and we can't just play music and commercials for hours on end!"_

Groaning, he pulled a pillow into his arms, "So call Antonio in. He comes on at five anyway."

_"I can't!"_ The Dane on the other end of the line whined, _"He's got a date in a hour!"_

"So," his face heated up in agitation, "that lets him off the hook and makes you call me?"

_"Well, its not like you're dating anyone."_

Arthur winced. _Damn that man…_ Despite the fact that Mathais was his boss they had known each other since university. And since they'd known each other, the only action he'd gotten in the romance department was a handful of one-night stands and a few flings that barely lasted awake. In his opinion, the man knew him too well, "That's not the point! I'm working a concert tonight; the lights don't exactly control themselves!"

_"What time do you have to be there?"_

"Six. Sharp," he lied. The concert started at eight, which meant he only had to me there at seven to help get things ready. He just hoped Mathais was smart enough to realize that if he got off at five, getting to the stage supposedly at six wouldn't be possible.

_"So I'll call Antonio and tell him to drag his lovesick ass in here by four thirty. I'm begging you here, Arthur."_

He covered his face with his hands. Why was the world so against him? "Fine, I'll be there in half an hour. You owe me, Mathais."

_"I sure do!"_ And with that the line went dead. Dragging the pillow in his arms over his head he sighed into the mattress. For not the first time in his life he wished that there was someone who would bring him his morning cup of tea. Tea…

The thought of his favorite beverage was, in the span of another five minutes, was enough to motivate him out of his warm sanctuary of a bed. He stretched, his back cracking just a bit, shook out his hair and, heading into the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil. Yawning again he ducked into the laundry and pulled out a pair of clean pants and a shirt, changing immediately and tossing his soiled night clothes into the hamper. Checking the wall clock he scowled, and pulled out a mug to make bagged instead of his preferred loose-leaf. Opening the cupboard he stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open in shock.

There were four boxes of pre-bagged tea in his cabinet. All but one stood empty: the last an untouched gift from Alfred.

Herbal.

Arthur slammed the door closed, leaning his head against the wood as the kettle screeched and yelled at him. This was not his day. This was _not_ his day. Turning the stove off again he snagged his coat from off the hook and slipped it over his shoulders. Pocketing the necessary items, wallet, keys, phone, he headed out into the London air.

The weather was unfortunately cold and by the time he made it to the bus stop it felt as if his fingers were going to fall off. Securing a seat by the window he stuffed his frozen hands under his arms and hunched into his coat. He closed his eyes, and outside the city gradually changed from apartments to store fronts they were in the heart of everything. The bus pulled up to the corner and Arthur disembarked, running into the building that housed the radio station. Mathais was waiting for him inside the door. "Arthur, thank god! I don't know how to thank you."

"Yeah, well," He handed the man his coat, walking towards the booth, "You can start by getting me a proper cup of tea. I didn't have time to get any before I got here."

Mathais saluted him, "No problem! I'm on it!" And with that he ran off, leaving Arthur to get situated on his own. Easing into his chair he fingered the various records before selecting one and getting everything set for when the current song ended. As the chorus line faded he slipped a pair of headphones on, pulled the microphone to his face, and prepared the cheeriest voice he could muster.

"Morning, Londoners. And for anyone who has to hear my voice at this ungodly hour of a Saturday, I apologize. I mean honestly, why would anyone _choose_ to be up this early on a Saturday? Anyway, for those of you who _are_ up and are accustomed to hearing the often grating voice of our own Gilbert Beilshmidt, the man's called in sick and you get me instead. I'm Arthur Kirkland and this is LPRI. Cheers."

Turning off the microphone he slipped in his selection and leaned back, letting the music wash over him. Oh, the things he would do for music. It was truly amazing, how the correct combination of notes and words could make one's soul want to fly.

Arthur opened his eyes as memories of the night before opened up in his mind. Thoughts of the story filled his consciousness, of the set designer alone on his stage wanting nothing more than to act in the places he created. Of the man with the wavy blonde hair and those piercing lapis eyes…

Before he could ponder the matter any longer the song came to a close and he pulled the microphone back to his lips, "That was Sting's "Send Your Love". And speaking of love, I'd like to give a brief mention of LPRI's Antonio Carriedo, who, instead of filling in for Gilbert and leaving me stuck here, is currently on a date somewhere out there on the London streets. So good luck Antonio. Get here soon so I can leave and try not to get a black eye like last time."

As he was about to put on the next song the phone started ringing. He glanced at the track in his hand, then shrugged and picked it up, "Hello, this is LPRI. You're on the air."

_"AAAARRTYY!"_ Alfred's voice filled the studio, so loud he almost fell out of his seat, _"Why didn't you tell me you were coming on air this weekend?"_

Righting himself he scowled and gripped the microphone, "You god da- What do you think you're doing?"

_"Calling you of course. Duh, Arty,"_ he said from his end of the line.

"Well I am at work, you sorry excuse of an English citizen, and people listen to the radio for music. Not your increasingly annoying voice!"

_"So I'll request a song then," Alfred retorted, "Play _Born in the-"

Before he could finish his sentence Arthur cut the line and slipped ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky" into the player. Safely off the air he leaned back and rubbed his eyes, only opening them again when Matthias stepped in with a to-go cup in hand. He took it gratefully, sighing as the flavors and scents of earl grey flooded his senses, "Mathais, if you really want me to thank me for being here on my day off then just get Alfred to stop calling me!"

"Stop calling?" Matthias laughed, leaning against the doorway, "Come on. We get our best ratings from your little tiffs. The listeners love it."

"Well I don't," He shot at his boss/friend, "One week. That's all I'm asking."

"How about seven Mondays instead of a straight week? Keeps everyone happy."

"Deal," he shook his hand before turning his attention to a legal pad resting on the desk next to a couple of pens. Taking another quick sip of his tea he snatched up the items and let out a sigh, preparing to write his first real novel. It would start with the rain. The rain and the warmth of the theater where the actors would take their positions and the set designer would watch and wish to be in their place…

In the background the song carried on, the lyrics drifting in waves through the air like his thoughts. The perfect tune to herald the beginning of a grand story.

_"Hey you with the pretty face… Welcome to the human race…"_

_

* * *

Foreboding ELO lyrics... what could they mean...? Oh well :) _


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur yawned and stretched, his fingers brushing against the soft sheets of his bed as well as… something warm. Still half asleep he moved toward the source, snuggling up against the welcome heat. That is, until it moved. Eyes snapping open he gaped at a shoulder attached to a neck attached to a sleeping face covered by a mop of golden hair…

"Perverted bastard!" If his yell didn't wake Francis from his slumber then the slap that followed soon after certainly did. The Frenchman's eyes flew open as he fell off the bed and landed with a _thud_ on the floor. Arthur pulled the blankets around himself and stared, horrified, at the place Francis had once been. He searched through the recesses of his mind but couldn't find anything about what had happened the night before that would lead to _this._

"You goddamned frog! What the hell did you do to me?"

Francis poked his head over the edge of the bed, a hand over his stinging cheek. The man raised a brow at him, "You honestly do not remember?"

All the color drained from his face as he ran through all of the possibilities of what _Francis _could have and probably had done to him, "Oh my god, what did we- what did _you_ do to me?"

"_Angleterre, _I did nothing!" Francis smirked, "Contrary to popular belief I do not make a habit of making love to those who are unconscious."

"I knew it you-! Wait, what was that?"

Chuckling, he sat up on the bed again, "Barely conscious, maybe, but never unconscious. Though don't assume…" he grinned, "that I wasn't tempted, _mon cher_."

Blushing, he pushed the other away, "Keep it in your pants you sodding wine freak!"

Face becoming serious Francis leaned in close once more, "_Angleterre_, do you honestly not remember?"

He pulled back, scowling. He was suddenly very aware of his heart pounding inside of his chest, "Remember what…?"

"We were walking out of that horrid basement of yours when you passed out," Was that a touch of… _concern_ in his voice? "And Arthur-"

"Yeah well," he started, moving away from the topic as quickly as possible and clambering to his feet, walking towards the door, "Thanks, I guess. You can leave now."

"_Angleterre_!" He had barely started going down the stairs when he heard Francis calling after him, "Wait!"

Walking faster he made his way into the kitchen for a cup of tea, "Dammit frog, I said thanks already! Now get out of my bloody house!"

Francis followed him, "Arthur, will you just listen to what I have to say?"

Putting the kettle on the stove top he glared at the blond nation standing across the room, "No matter what you may have done for me I'm not going to sleep with you, you wanker!"

Laying a hand on his face it appeared as though Francis was counting under his breath before looking up once again, trademark smile on his face, "_Oui, je sais._ But surely you would not deny your savior un petit dejunner?"

"Savior my arse… But I guess you can stay." Opening a cabinet he removed a pan and placed it on the stove next to the kettle, "What do you want?"

Francis laughed, reaching forward and taking the cookware from his hands, "As if I would let you poison me with your cooking skills. I will make it."

Arthur flushed angrily, "What was that about my cooking? I'll have you know-"

"Yes, yes. I know. Now run along and get your tea. The water is starting to boil."

Grumbling to himself he sent a piercing glare at the Frenchman's back before wandering over to his tea supply. Opening the door to the freestanding cabinet he pulled out a small tin of earl grey. Smiling slightly he popped the lid off to take a whiff of his precious leaves.

Empty.

The tin was completely empty. Frantically he tossed it aside, opening another. And then another. Two more tins of earl grey, oolong, English breakfast… Even the green tea that Kiku had given him a while back had run out. All that was left was some dinky old box of 'herbal samplers' that Alfred had sent him for his birthday two years ago. It wasn't even real tea, blast it all!

"Something wrong, _mon cher_?" Francis enquired from his position at the counter.

"Ye, there is and don't call me that!" he barked at his unwelcome house guest, "Because I just remembered that after I finished closing that trans-dimensional door I was telling you about I was supposed to go shopping!"

Francis raised a brow, "What's the problem? There's plenty of food in the house."

"There is? W-well that's not the point!"

"Then do enlighten me, mon petit."

"It means," he pointed a finger at the offending tins, "That I have no tea!"

A knowing look crossed the other's face, "Ah, I see. Not to worry, _Angleterre_." The next thing he knew Francis had directed him to the table and plopped him down in one of the chairs, "Once you taste my cooking all of your woes will be forgotten!"

He let his head fall against the table, "I highly doubt it, frog. What are you making anyway?"

"_Une omelette des fines herbs_. It will be ready in mere moments!"

Arthur responded with a grunt, commenting no further after that. He rubbed his eyes, remaining silent as Francis continued to cook, "… You know I think I had a dream about this."

"What?" Francis smirked, "You were dreaming about me? _Angleterre_, I'm touched."

Eyes flashing and face turning red he leapt to his feet, "I was not dreaming about _you_, you twit! I'm talking about me tea."

Francis' face fell, "Oh, how dull. You should really try to have more interesting dreams."

Crossing his arms he stood there, thinking, "I was… a radio figure of some sort. Or something. I was called in on my day off, and I was completely out of tea except for that one forsaken bow of herbal…"

"Still sounds horribly dull to me," Francis replied, "Now why not sit down?"

He pulled out his chair again when a thumping at the door made him look up. Sparing a glance at Francis he walked out into the hall and pulled the old wooden door open to find the morning paper sitting on his stoop. He smiled slightly, lifting it into his hands and slipping off the elastic, the newspaper unfurling in his hands. Scanning over the headlines his eyes widened, fingers crumpling the paper as his grip tightened.

"Francis…" he whispered, "Francis!" Arthur rushed back inside, waving the paper around like a mad man, blood pounding in his ears. I couldn't be right- there had to be some mistake! "How long was I unconscious? Tell me, frog!"

The Frenchman stood his ground, holding a plate of food in each hand, "Two weeks, _Angleterre. _I tried to tell you earlier, you know."

"Two… Two weeks?" he shouted before collapsing to the floor, the paper falling from his grasp.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Arthur stepped into his apartment, kicking off his shoes and brushing the snow from his hair, as it had finally gotten cold enough for the soggy rain to freeze on its trip down from the sky. It had been a long day, but at least it was a Monday, which meant that Alfred couldn't call him a million times like usual thanks to Matthias. Stretching, he hung up his coat and walked across the cold linoleum floor, heading into his room and plopping down at his desk. For once the surface was relatively clean, documents organized and pens gathered neatly in a cup. His laptop sat dead center, and with the push of a button its warm mechanical light soon filled the room. Quickly pulling up the correct file he leaned forward to read what he had written.

_It had been raining for days, the heavy clouds soaking the city in mist and fog._

So maybe it wasn't much for his first novel but at least it was a start. Pressing back against the chair he shook out his long fingers before settling down and starting to type.

_It had been raining for days, the heavy clouds soaking the city in mist and fog. But inside the theatre it was warm, actors and jeans and t-shirts basking in the stage lights. Romeo moved to the center of the stage, script in hand and feet settling over the small white 'x'. In the background a man stops painting the set and turns toward the voice echoing over the seats cloaked in darkness. The dried paint on his face cracked as he smiled, turning back to his work. He painted to the beating hi his heart, the brush in his hand moving up and down and up and down. The color not only covered the plain wood but the words he whispered to himself, mimicking Romeo with precision and ease. How many times has he heard the words, never getting a chance to speak them himself as much as he desires to? _

_ And this is the life of-_

Arthur stopped, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. What on earth would he name him? This character that had very nearly come to him in a dream… Something to go with the blond hair, the blue eyes. The air of extreme confidence and the artists hand.

_And this is the life of Fillip Browning. _

Fillip Browning. He worked the name over in his mind. Yeah, that sounded about right. Briefly he toyed with the idea of making Fillip an artist outside of set design. The man's ultimate goal may have been to act but that didn't mean he couldn't have any other pursuits.

The ringing from his mobile jolted him back from his silent reverie. Scowling, he rubbed his eye before picking it up and pressing it to his ear, "Arthur Kirkland speaking."

_"Arty!"_ Alfred's voice boomed, _"How's it goin'?"_

He rolled his eyes, "Fine, Alfred. What do you want?"

_"Really? You can't guess?"_

"No, I can't guess," he cast a glance at his laptop, "So if you have something to tell me then say it. I'm busy."

_"How could you not notice? The strip club across from your place just opened!"_

Raising an eyebrow Arthur rose, wandering to his window and peering out. Sure enough, flashing neon lights greeted him proclaiming the new 'open' status of the club. He supposed he had been so keen on avoiding the place that if he had noticed the opening sign it had completely slipped his mind.

"Well, that's nice," he sneered, "What's that got to do with me?"

_"We have to go together! Like, now!"_ Alfred shouted.

"No thanks. I'm perfectly happy staying in my own living space, I'll have you know."

_"What is wrong with you? All that tea must have gone to your head."_

"Nothing is stopping _you_ from going. Except those morals you seem to have forgotten back in America."

_"Fine, fine. Can I crash on your couch when I'm done?"_

"No! If you're out so late that you can't find a cab on your own then you don't deserve one!"

He could practically hear Alfred pouting, _"Its not like you're doing anything."_

"On the contrary, Alfred, I was planning a nice and quiet night alone," pulling away from the window he walked back into the kitchen, grabbing a pan from under the counter, "Now if you'll excuse me I want to eat my dinner."

_"What's cooking? Hopefully not you!"_

As Alfred laughed at his own 'horribly funny' joke, Arthur's face burned, "My cooking is fantastic!"

_"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."_

"I am hanging up on you!" He slammed his mobile on the counter, positively seething. But then he stopped, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Maybe he had read somewhere that strong emotion was good for writing inspiration but he was pretty sure that getting pissed at Alfred was not what they were talking about.

Sighing deeply he reached into the fridge, pulling out a couple of eggs. Making an omelet shouldn't be that hard to accomplish, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Face covered in sweat Arthur jolted awake, heart racing and lungs taking in great gulps of air. Putting a hand over his forehead he tried, rather unsuccessfully, to calm himself down. That dream, the same dream nonetheless, had been so real. He could still feel the keys of the laptop under his fingers and still hear Alfred's obnoxious voice ringing in his ear. He quickly shook it off. A quick glance around revealed he was in his own room, lying in his own four-poster bed. And by the light glow of the first signs of dawn, he could tell that he was not exactly alone.

Francis was sitting, well sleeping, in an armchair next to his bed. From the looks of it he had dragged it in from the sitting room across the hall. Scowling but not quite as deeply as usual he picked up a pillow and threw it at his face, "Wake up, frog."

The Frenchman woke much the same as he had, startled and disoriented for a few moments before rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "_Angleterre_, you're awake."

"Really? You noticed?" he responded, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, "Now what the hell happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"Don't you dare start that again!" Arthur snapped, then quickly looked at his hands, "I woke up, found out that I had been unconscious for two weeks and then apparently went unconscious /again/. So how long was I out this time?"

"About the same. What on earth is wrong with you?"

"Well if I knew then I wouldn't be in this situation, would I?" he ran a hand through his hair, frowning as his fingers got caught in knots and tangles, "Its just... _weird_, that's what it is."

"You don't have to tell me twice, _Angleterre_," Francis said, stretching his arms above his head. Arthur's eyes went wide.

"You-you...! What the hell are you wearing?"

Francis grinned, looking down at his chest, "Something I found in the back of your closet. You like it?"

He didn't like it. Not at all. The shirt was black, something of his own creation no less, skulls and band names stitched wherever there was room to spare. The Union Flag adorned the collar, creating an effect most similar to a choker. It was something from days long passed, days he was quite happy to put behind him, thank you very much.

"Very 'British Invasion' to use an American term, _Angleterre_. Your craftsmanship is flawless, as always. Although I'm not sure how that specific trait fits into your punk rock persona."

He was boiling, positively /seething/. Arthur jabbed a finger at the Frenchman and snarled, "I will British Invade your arse!"

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Why you!"

In two seconds flat he was up, chasing Francis around the house. Laughter and cursing filled the halls until both of them collapsed on the living room carpet, exhausted.

"Why are you... wearing that damned thing anyway..?" he asked between attempts to get his breath back.

Francis shrugged, "I have been here for three and a half weeks, Arthur. I had to change my clothes sometime."

"But why that?"

"Simply to get a reaction out of you, _mon cher_. And I have to say it was worth it," Francis replied, sending him a lewd grin, "Of course, I could always take it off..."

"Don't even think about it!" Arthur screamed. If there was anything he _didn't_ want to see upon waking up then a naked Francis was probably at the top of the list. He rubbed his eyes, letting loose a deep sigh, "I hate you. I really, really hate you."

"I love you too, _Angleterre_."

He glared at the Frenchman before climbing to his feet again and wandering into the kitchen. Much the same as before his mind went to his tea, only to remember as be reached for the kettle that he was still out. And to that effect he swore, loudly, and kicked at a chair.

Francis walked in behind him, "_Angleterre_, calm down," Reaching into a cabinet he pulled out a brand new tin of Earl Grey. Bagged, but Earl Grey nonetheless. Arthur gaped at it.

"I... How did... Why?" is what eventually came out of his mouth.

Chuckling, Francis filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove for him, "Well, I did have to go shopping at some point. I recalled that you were out and took the liberty of getting some for you."

"Oh. Well- wait, you went shopping?"

The man nodded, "_Oui._ Are you hungry?"

Arthur realized that he was indeed positively starving. Walking over to the fridge he yanked the door open, eyes widening as its soft light lit the floor around his feet.

There was food in his fridge. Real food. And not just prepackaged things from the market or old take away cartons but _ingredients._ He stared at the arrangement a moment longer, then looked back at Francis, "What the hell did you do to my fridge?"

"I was not going to let myself starve, Arthur. That would be a tragedy. Now," He smiled at him, pulling a cup for his tea out of the cupboard, "Breakfast?"

XXXXXXXX

After breakfast was done, Francis changed into something more respectable and Arthur nursing his fifth cup of tea, the subject that had been plaguing both of their minds was finally broached. Francis leaned forward across the table, looking into his eyes, "I'm worried about you, Arthur."

"Well isn't that a shocker," the Englishman replied, rolling his eyes and taking another sip of his tea, "I'm perfectly fine. Nothing I can't handle myself."

"I don't believe you. If you were 'fine', as you say, then I would not have found you unconscious three times!"

Arthur scowled, "And what would you do about it? You want to help?"

Francis clasped his hands together, "Well, yes."

A large eyebrow rose, "_You_ want to help _me_?"

"Of course I do," He smiled, "Where would I be if I didn't have _mon petit Angleterre _around?"

He felt a slight heat rise to his cheeks, "And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

A shrug, "I still have to convince you of the superiority of the French lifestyle, _cher_."

"What? There is no reason I would _ever _be of that opinion!"

Francis winked at him, "Not yet, you mean."

Arthur slammed his tea cup down as hard as he dared on the table, rising angrily to his feet, "Then just go back to frog land where you belong, French arse!" And with that he turned on his heel, walking to the cellar door and heading down into its depths. What did he care about Francis anyway? The man could be hit by a meteor on his way home for all that it mattered to him.

It was colder in the cellar, the only light coming from a few ceiling lamps. Arthur let out a breath, standing at the edge of his work area and surveying what was there. Everything seemed as he had left it: the ruined circle, jars of various ingredients, and a book of incantations lying open on the table. After stretching out his shoulders he grit his teeth and dove into the mess, determined to find out what had gone wrong.

"_Angleterre, _don't be like that," a few seconds later Francis came down after him, "I was only teasing you."

Arthur glared at him, "Either stay and help or leave me alone because you certainly aren't helping now!"

The Frenchman simply grinned at him, moving over to where he stood, "What can I do?"

"Just keep your bloody hands to yourself, wanker!"

For the next hour they searched the place top to bottom, Arthur picking apart every minute detail and Francis moving the objects of discarded theories off to the side and out of the way. But even after going through everything twice, they had nothing to show for it.

"God damn…" He slumped against the table, tossing the great book of spells to the side. This was going nowhere. And any second now he may pass out and be swept up into that dream…

Francis sat next to him, "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way, _Angleterre_."

Arthur glanced at him, "And just what do you mean by that?"

"Instead of trying to find something you did wrong, why not try following the correct steps first? Like finding something you lost, _oui_?"

Turning the idea over in his head for a moment he shrugged and climbed back to his feet, "Worth a shot. Nothing else I do is working."

He walked over to the circle, pointing to different runes and moving his fingers around as if drawing them again. Francis stayed off to the side, arms crossed over his chest and finally climbing to his feet again. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Watching.

"So I drew the circle," Arthur moved so that he was standing by the smudged area, "picked up the book and then…" he took a step forward, then stopped, his eyes wide and staring, "And then I stepped forward…"

Silence. Francis walked over, leaning in, "Arthur? Something wrong?"

"That's it! Bloody hell, I'm such an _idiot_!"

A thin blond brow rose, "_Angleterre_?"

"Don't you see anything, you dumb frog? I took a step forward _into_ the circle! I became a physical part of it!" He started to pace back and forth, mind turning, "I'm such a fool!"

"Arthur!"

Suddenly Francis' hands were on his shoulder, "Stop pacing, stop screaming, and in that nice and precise language you English seem to love, tell me what's happened."

"Why can't you _see_?" Jabbing a finger at one of the smudges he continued, "The magic was flowing through me as part of the circle. It was like I had replaced the symbol my foot inadvertently erased!"

"That still doesn't tell me anything about what's happening!"

He grit his teeth together, the rage he felt at himself redirected at the Frenchman, "I was trying to close a trans-dimensional door, Francis!" The name was spat out as if poison from his lips, "What do you think happens when you take away the symbol for 'closing'?"

"So you opened a doorway?"

He was finally getting it! "Yes, goddamn you! I opened one by mistake!"

"Then this is simple, non? All we have to do is close it," Francis said.

Arthur's hands fisted at his sides, shaking, "Are… Are all of the French this utterly dense? How many times do I have to tell you I was part of the circle?"

"So? Didn't you just erase a symbol?"

"So? So?" he shouted, "If the power was coursing through my body, then where do you think it opened?"

Francis stared at him, "_Non…_ Are you telling me that the door is…"

"Oh look, he's finally guessed it!" Letting out a shuddering breath he covered his face with a hand, "The door itself is inside of me. And it's pulling me in."

* * *

_When I started this fic... I thought I had a pretty good idea. But typing up these chapters I'm beginning to feel like maybe its not. So if anyone thinks I should continue, please tell me. Or that I should discontinue it. Either way._


	5. Chapter 5

"The door is inside of you… Is that even possible?" Francis asked. Arthur scowled at him.

"Well apparently it is, twit!" he shot back, "Otherwise I wouldn't be in this situation!"

"Alright, _d'accord_. What do we do about it?"

Arthur stared at him, feeling all of the anger and energy leaving him in one fell swoop, "I… I don't know…"

Once again he sank to the floor, the cold from the stones seeping into his body and serving as nothing but a cold reminder of his reality. At least, what was now his reality. The door would serve like a whirlpool inside of his mind, sucking him into the world of his so-called dream over and over again until the only thing left of his original life would be a cold husk. He would just be dragged deeper and deeper…

"So," Francis took a seat next to him, folding his long legs, "Tell me about this door?"

"Why should I?" he mumbled, drawing his knees up to his chin, "There's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that, _Angleterre_. That's what you said before you discovered what had gone wrong."

Groaning he buried his face into his legs, "Fine, you bloody froggy wine bastard. It's like a door between two points in space and time. If it's stable enough you could use it for travel, which is how Ivan keeps getting into my house…"

Francis nodded, looking as if he were actually listening for once in his life, "And where is this door taking you?"

He rubbed his eyes, "Its… weird. Very odd. Almost exactly like things are here."

"So… something akin to another dimension?"

"Yeah," Arthur put a hand on his head, thinking, "Its exactly like this place actually, except that I'm not a nation. Just another bloke living in a flat in London. There are some of the others two, only their not nations either by the looks of things. But… when I'm there, I don't remember a thing about being here. Which is really, really off track now that I'm thinking about it."

Francis leaned in closer, "Tell me more. Maybe something will come to you."

"Well, Alfred is there," he started, "Still annoying as all hell. And Matthias. Supposedly Gilbert and Antonio too although I haven't seen them in person. And I'm just some radio personality, living on my own and trying to write a book."

"But I am not there? _Angleterre, _I'm crushed."

He snorted, "Thanks for reminding me I have at least one thing to be thankful for…" Arthur stopped, head slowly turning to look at the man by his side, "Why are you here?"

A chuckle, "That is quite the loaded question, is it not?"

"That is not what I mean, you git face! I mean the first time you came here and found me unconscious. Why were you here at all?"

"You weren't answering my calls."

"I never answer your damn calls."

"Well…"

"Yes?"

"I was curious."

"About what? We've known each other for centuries and unfortunately that means there's not much room for discovery any more."

"Would you come with me on a date, _Angleterre_?"

Arthur froze, green eyes wide and staring at Francis, "Wh-what…?"

It was as if every cell in his body had suddenly been set on hyper-sensitive. He was all too aware of how close they actually were, how at some point the Frenchman had started rubbing small soothing circles into his back. Of Francis' breath, warm and just brushing past his neck. His heart pounded. This wasn't right! In no plausible circumstances would Francis ever say something as idiotic and foolish as that! He must still be dreaming. That must be it. He closed his eye tight, willing for everything to go away. Yet when he opened them again Francis was still there, the only thing gained from his effort black spots in his line of view.

Francis shrugged, sighing dramatically, "Of course, you could always leave me alone and cold. This is you we're talking about of course."

But an answer was never given. Instead the only response was a slow exhale of breath as lids fell heavily over green orbs as a more then subconscious wish was granted. A small limp body found its way into warm arms as consciousness melted away to spend its time in another life.

XXXXXXXXX

Today was the day. It was finally here! Arthur couldn't keep the smile from his face as he rummaged around in his closet for something to wear. It just… God, it had to be perfect. Alfred was meeting him at the café around the corner at one, which meant he had until at least one fifteen to get there and still be earlier then him. He glanced at the laptop currently taking residence on his bed and the grin on his face only doubled. There was his beauty, his pride and joy, all typed up and e-mailed to Alfred last week. And not just some silly short story, or a compilation of poems. A real novel.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror he stopped, taking the time to look at his reflection. Still shirtless he frowned at the way his favorite pair of jeans, dark denim and frayed at the cuffs, hugged his hips just a little too tightly for his liking. But maybe that's what being an author did to you. Made you want to buy quick snacks down at the market so you wouldn't have to bother getting up from your work for meals. He sighed, running a hand down his chest over his pale skin. Maybe he would take up jogging. Or buy one of those horrid bicycle machines and use it to hang clothes on in the pretense of exercise. Oh well.

In no time at all the smile returned to his face. It didn't matter, not today. Because, whatever the outcome, good or bad, he had finally accomplished what needed to be done. And Alfred's certainly wasn't the only publishing house in London if things didn't work out.

Returning to his closet he eventually yanked a black t-shirt out of the back. Arthur's lips quirked at the thing, worn from age and use, and pulled it over his head. It fit comfortably around his shoulders, band names decorating his torso as well as an impromptu Union Flag. However many hours he had spent making the thing was worth it. He loved his clothes.

Taking another glance into the mirror he ran a hand through his hair before waving off the idea as futile. And it was only Alfred besides. Pulling a jacket over his shoulders he slid his laptop into his bag and slipped the strap around his torso.

"Okay, Arthur, okay…" he walked into the kitchen, making a beeline for the door and stuffing his feet into a pair of old and experienced sneakers on the way, "One step at a time. You can do this."

The wind seemed to sense his arrival as he stepped outside, strong gusts of lukewarm air buffeting at his clothes. Pulling the collar closer around his neck he set off down the street at a brisk pace, feet thumping the pavement like an endless bass beat. Passing the strip club across the street he sneered at it. It didn't even make sense, building one here. But then again maybe if his book actually got published he could get a better apartment…

A few minutes later Arthur found himself nudging his way into the small corner café, procuring himself a steaming cup of oolong and flopping down into an empty seat by the window. And goddamn if he could see the obnoxious neon colors of the club from his seat. Deciding to ignore the world outside of his own personal bubble for the moment, he sipped his tea and pulled out _Pride and Prejudice_ while he waited for Alfred to show up.

He didn't have to wait long. Sooner then later the man walked up to him, flicking at his book before sitting down, a grin plastered on his face, "Still reading those pussy books, Arty?"

Arthur scowled at him, "They are no such thing! These are fine pieces of literature!"

Alfred rolled his eyes, "They're so dull!"

"You just lack culture."

"Whatever," waving a hand dismissively Alfred leaned back, lets get talking about the important stuff."

His heart rate sped up in his chest, his grip tightening on his cup. This was i-

"I'm in love!"

Arthur stared at him, the balloon of expectation in his chest quickly deflating, "You're what…?"

"In. Love!" Alfred exclaimed again, "And it's all thanks to you, buddy!"

"Thanks to me? What are you talking about?"

A strong hand clapped him on the back, "All thanks to you! I must have caught your gay or something!"

His face heated up, "Alfred, you dunce! Being of a different sexuality is not something you can catch! Now try to speak intelligently for once in your life and tell me what's going on!"

"Well we haven't been talking to much so I haven't had time to tell you, y'know?" he stuck a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the strip club, "Remember the first time I went into that place?"

He rubbed his eyes, his patience rapidly thinning, "Yes, unfortunately. So?"

"So now I'm in love!"

Arthur gaped at him, "… You're telling me you fell in love with a stripper?"

"Not like that! I mean sure, he's hot and everything but he's such a great guy!"

He took a deep breath, "Alright. Jut tell me everything from the beginning."

"So I'm in there, yeah? And the music's blaring and the lights are flashing. Its fantastic. And then I see him. And I'm just like, 'Woah, dude. That's a guy.' But I can't take my eyes off him! So we start talking, and now I'm in love!"

He would be needing another cup of tea. He could already tell, "So that's it? One conversation from this stripper and now you've gone head over heels?"

"Dude, he's not 'the stripper'. His name's Mattie and the club thing is just to help him pay off student loans. He's going to Oxford!"

Shaking his head Arthur rubbed his eyes, "The Oxford stripper? Sounds like a bad romance novel… And he drives for over an hour just for a job in London?"

Alfred shrugged, "Its just a weekend job. He stays with a friend during the day."

"Good lord… I don't know whether to be happy or disturbed."

"Then be happy!" The man started bouncing up and down like a child who had just come within sight of the candy counter, "Please, Arty, please!"

"Of all the bloody… Yes, I'm happy for you. Now can we please get down to business?"

"To _defeat_, the Hu-!"

"If you do not stop singing this instant then I will throw you out this window!"

Alfred pouted, as was his normal reaction, "Geeze, fine. Just trying to be happy here."

He leaned back in his chair. Maybe it would be better just to end it all then spend another second with Alfred, "Are you going to tell me or not?"

Reaching into his bag Alfred slapped a piece of paper on the table, "You're in, dude!"

He blinked. Blinked again, "What?"

"You. Are. In. Congrats! You're going to be published!"

"Goddamn it Alfred if you are just screwing around with this then so help me!"

Alfred laughed, holding up his hands, "I'm serious! Even I liked it!"

Arthur was really getting a hand of this blinking thing, "You read it?"

"Yeah," Nodding, he pulled a pen from his pocket, "I couldn't just hand it over without reading it first. I usually hate all of that romance soul-searching shit but it was pretty good!"

"I… I'm going to be published…" He couldn't, just couldn't believe it. It was almost like some crazy dream and any second he would wake up, alone and a horrible writer. Just to be sure he pinched himself, but when he opened his eyes everything was as it was before. Definitely not a dream. Alfred was taking one last look over what he assumed was to be his contract, and here he was, sitting and waiting to finish the deal.

Slowly a grin spread over his face, "So where do I sign?"

And in a deafening roar of light and sound, the world went mad.

* * *

_Well, I didn't give up on this story in the end. A thanks to all those who didn't think this story deserved to be forgotten._


End file.
